


Out-Maneuvered

by ncfan



Series: Femslash February [18]
Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Background Rudolf/Kyrie, Bechdel Test Pass, F/F, Femslash February, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Abuse, POV Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 17:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9836315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ncfan/pseuds/ncfan
Summary: Kyrie tries to work out a different way of getting rid of Asumu, but things don't go as she intended.





	

When Kyrie was very young, she and her father had played a certain game. The exact game escaped her now, only that there had been a checkered game board, and myriad pieces. Kyrie had come to a point when she thought it impossible to advance her pieces any further, but her father had insisted there was another way.

_“There is more than one solution to this problem, Kyrie. If you can’t see any way out using the obvious solution, then perhaps it’s time to look at this from a different angle, hmm?”_

All her life, Kyrie found she appreciated that simple piece of advice more than any of the ‘lessons’ her mother had imparted on her. It was a lesson she had profited from greatly, without having to buy it with pain.

The lights shifted color, vivid, electric blue to soft, dusky purple. As the night wore on, more people had spilled out from the street outside into the club. A few fireflies followed after them, but the insects _would_ eventually fly back out into the muggy night. They knew they didn’t belong in here.

Something else that didn’t belong had followed the fireflies inside.

Tonight, at least, was a night Kyrie suspected she could spend without having to constantly look over her shoulder at Rudolf. The girls who had glued themselves to his side were just more of the same hangers-on, who were here for a week, then gone forever. Their claws weren’t long enough or sharp enough to find any real purchase in flesh. If any of them thought to make trouble, Kyrie would have no difficulty dislodging them. She never had. The women she sent packing didn’t dare show their faces around Rudolf again.

Just as well that Kyrie could afford not to watch over Rudolf tonight—she found her eyes irresistibly drawn, though she would have liked to be able to look away, to what was standing off in the far corner near the bar, acting for all the world as though she had not seen them.

Oh, Kyrie was sure Asumu would have an _excuse_ ready, if asked. That excuse would fall flat—it _had_ to. She’d not even dressed any differently than she did at work, still clad in the same kind of light, floaty dress she always wore in summer, the hem swishing around her knees, collar clutching her collarbone. Kyrie tried to ignore the way Asumu’s skirt shimmered under the purple light, tried not to let Asumu’s glittering necklace draw her attention to her slender neck. Kyrie wondered briefly how it would feel to slide her hands around that neck, how warm, satin-smooth flesh would look and feel after her fingernails had found purchase there. Her stomach swooped oddly, and she pushed the thought away as best she could.

It would not be a simple thing, making Asumu ‘go away.’ Perhaps if they did not all work together, it would have been easier. Rudolf never paid much mind when one of his followers stopped following after him, but even that man would have to notice if his secretary abruptly turned in her resignation. And even if Asumu was one of those who only turned up at venues like this, the sheer volume of difference between her and the other girls who hung around Rudolf (so much quieter, more demure, less prone to that high, sharp laugh, behaved for all the world as though she had no claws) might be enough to make Rudolf notice her absence. Might be enough to make him ask questions.

Another approach would be needed, obviously. Something subtler, perhaps? But Kyrie could not for the life of her figure out what this other approach was supposed to be.

 _Well, the first step is obvious,_ a voice that bore little resemblance to Kyrie’s own whispered from a shadowed corner of her mind. _Find out more about your opponent. You’ve avoided socializing with Asumu-san until now; all you’ve ever done is watch her out of the corner of your eye. You can’t flip the chessboard over until you know your opponent well enough to guess at moves and motivations. So go talk to her. ‘Make nice.’_

Kyrie’s absence would not be noticed; she already knew that. Rudolf’s attention was thoroughly engrossed. She could probably walk off for the rest of the night, leave without saying goodbye, and when she got to work the next morning, there would be no comment. She’d mind it, more than Kyrie particularly liked to admit, but this inattention did provide a certain freedom of movement, so she could—would—live with it.

Slowly, each step deliberate, her heart pounding and her feet heavy, Kyrie made her way across the club floor. Asumu’s shimmery dress (some silvery fabric, Kyrie determined from closer up), made her easy to spot, though she was no longer standing where she had been when Kyrie’s eyes were first drawn towards her. Instead, Kyrie found Asumu sitting at the bar. Instead of the stiff, straight posture she displayed at work (so proper, so correct, so thoroughly appropriate that it set Kyrie’s teeth on edge), Asumu leaned forward in her chair. One leg was crossed over the other; her elbows were up on the bar, her chin resting on knotted fingers. Silver glittered at her throat and winked at her wrists. An expression of light boredom sat on Asumu’s porcelain-smooth, unblemished face, her thick, honey-gold curls brushing against her neck.

As she drew closer, Kyrie found she had been wrong about Asumu’s dress in one important regard. She had seen it only from the front, and assumed that the collar’s depth was the same for the front and the back. As luck would have it, she was mistaken.

The back collar of Asumu’s dress plunged in a wide, tapering ‘V’, coming to a stop about four inches past her exposed shoulder blades. Kyrie traced the fine edges of the dress with her eyes, trying to avoid looking at that exposed skin, but something _pulled_ , and she had to look.

The skin on Asumu’s back was as smooth and supple as it was on her face, her neck, her arms and calves (Kyrie thought bitterly of the scars on the backs of her legs, the markers of her mother’s lessons, and wondered how certain others might improve if they all had to learn their lessons the way she had learned hers). No scars on that flesh, no wrinkles or stretch marks. The only break in fair, smooth skin was a brown mole on the left shoulder blade. Kyrie stared at it, surprised by its very existence—Asumu’s skin had all the even color and smooth texture of a porcelain doll; a mole, even common as they were, seemed like the last thing she should find on Asumu’s body (Perhaps there were more, just hiding beneath fabric). But more surprising still was the sharpness of her shoulder blades. Kyrie had expected Asumu’s body to be all soft curves, without a single hard line to be found. But they were sharp, so sharp that the purple light did not soften them at all.

_Even the most inexperienced chess player can surprise a master, if they get lucky._

Kyrie stood stuck in place, staring, for so long that the lights had begun to darken to black when Asumu finally noticed her for the first time. Asumu smiled as though they did not have the history that they did, as though they could not both sprout claws at any moment. “Kyrie-san,” she greeted her, her voice as sweet and honey-smooth as it ever was when she spoke to Rudolf; the hairs on Kyrie’s neck and arms prickled uncomfortably. “I didn’t know you were here.”

What a luxury it must be, to not have to scope out a place every time you entered it, checking for opponents and obstacles. Kyrie took a seat in the chair on Asumu’s left hand side, suddenly very glad she had worn her contacts tonight instead of coke bottle glasses, though her irritated eyes would not thank her later. “You must have gotten in before me. We would have noticed each other, otherwise.” She raised her eyebrows meaningfully. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Asumu tipped her head back, exposing more of her soft, slender neck, and gave a light, scintillating life. “Not unless waiting for my drink counts, no.” This could be no relief when the sound of her laugh made Kyrie’s heart leap straight into her throat. “I’m afraid the bartender is rather preoccupied at the moment.”

She pointed to their left, the clear polish on her fingernails sparkling under black light, and Kyrie dutifully followed with her eyes. Sure enough, there was the bartender on the far side of the bar, engaged in animated conversation with a group of four patrons. Without looking back at Asumu, Kyrie remarked, very casually, “I didn’t know you drank.”

That was something she could use; it was something to _monitor_ , at least. Certain kinds of people said more than they intended when drunk, or trusted certain people with secrets rather more than they would if sober. Still more seemed to undergo radical shifts in personality, becoming morose or overly cheerful, irate at the drop of a hat or just so mellow that a punch to the jaw couldn’t anger them. Inhibitions slipped, and that was what was most important.

“Not often,” Asumu replied, shrugging her shoulders and shifting her weight slightly in her chair. Her skirt gleamed like polished obsidian. “I do like the taste of certain wines, though, and the atmosphere in this place is quite nice.” She paused, looking Kyrie over with an almost speculative glint in her eyes. That was a new one—Asumu’s most common expressions were “earnest” and “doe-eyed,” and rarely ever accommodated anything more calculating than “thoughtful.” “As it happens, I rented out a booth at the back for some privacy. You’re welcome to join me, if you want.”

Privacy would certainly serve Kyrie’s purposes better than staying out here at the bar, where interruptions were that much more likely. Kyrie smiled politely and gave an appropriately grateful nod. “Thanks, Asumu-san. Once we’ve gotten our drinks—I was planning on ordering something—we can go to your booth.”

Asumu beamed at her. “Wonderful! And thank you for waiting with me.” She pressed her palm against her cheek and let loose a rueful, tinkling little laugh. “The whole reason I started renting out a booth in the first place was that when I sat alone at the bar, there were people who just wouldn’t leave me alone.”

For a moment, fellow-feeling welled in Kyrie’s chest. She knew that story; she’d _lived_ that story. When it came time to push “fellow-feeling” down into oblivion, Kyrie was surprised at how difficult it was to do so. “Some men just can’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

Eventually, the bartender came back, and Kyrie was able to place an order (Just plain sake, just the one glass; Kyrie had a limited range of alcohol she actually enjoyed, and an even smaller range that didn’t immediately interact poorly with her stomach). Eventually, they got their drinks, just as the lighting overhead was shifting from black to a soft, whitish glow. Asumu’s drink came served in a tall, slender flute, fizzing as it was set down before her. It was a light pinkish color, likely something sweet, which surprised Kyrie not at all. She knew Asumu’s love of sweet foods; even someone without perfect vision could pick up on the amount of sweets stuffed into her lunch box most days.

Asumu led Kyrie back to where her booth was located, and under white light, her dress shone like molten silver, cascading over the gentle swell of her swaying hips. The booth Asumu had chosen certainly had plenty in the way of _privacy_. It was situated in a remote corner of the club, well away from the main floor and the bar, and was enclosed on three sides by a rounded wall that served as an effective shield against prying eyes, if positioned properly. The table was itself circular, and small enough that Kyrie found herself sitting next to Asumu instead of across from her. Oh, well. She could still learn this way, could still…

(It would be easier to make out the exact timbre of Asumu’s voice here, the rise and fall, sweet notes and trills. Kyrie often found herself listening to Asumu’s voice when she talked. It always started out as trying to pick out false tones and pitches, trying to pick out any ways she might be modulating her voice to make herself sound more appealing. That was how it started. It ended with Kyrie just… listening, her mind gone blank.)

They took their first few sips of alcohol in silence, Asumu balancing her flute more expertly than Kyrie would have expected of someone who allegedly didn’t drink often. _A lie, then, or she simply uses that kind of glass to drink more than alcohol._ Of course, a _lady_ did not admit to imbibing on a regular basis, so it seemed more likely that the first was true. At the very least, Asumu did not drink heavily enough for it to tell on her the next morning at work.

_So she has self-control enough to stop before drinking enough to induce a hangover. That doesn’t mean I can’t get something out of her._

“So,” Kyrie said softly, laying her glass back down on the table with a clink, “do you still enjoy working with us?”

Asumu’s smile showed just the slightest suggestion of teeth, though there was nothing remotely threatening in her eyes (Jade green under normal light, but under white, more like silver glass, and significantly more difficult to read). “Yes, I am. Honestly, I’m rather relieved; this is the first job I’ve had that I’ve been able to keep for more than a couple of months.”

“Oh?” Kyrie eyed her closely, tried to keep her gaze from falling on Asumu’s mouth, and failed. “Why is that?"

“Well, you know how I am with most vehicles,” Asumu told her, her eyes crinkling upwards as she emitted a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh. “After I showed up soaking wet because I’d ridden my bicycle through the rain, or late because I had to walk, my employers tended to decide they didn’t want me around anymore.”

“I can see how that would make things difficult.”

She was devoted to that lie, it would seem. Kyrie wondered if drunkenness would be enough for Asumu to admit that she was only feigning her fear of shaking vehicles to garner sympathy. It had to be a lie, after all; it was just too much of a coincidence, that Asumu would just happen to have a trait that was guaranteed to attract Rudolf’s attention and sympathy. But then again, Asumu had clung to the lie for so long already, practiced it so consistently, that it was entirely possible that there wasn’t enough wine in the world to get the truth out of her.

(And her _presentation_ was just masterful, even taking into account that it was the keystone of the lie. Most women did not look particularly attractive with their hair disheveled, their eyes red and puffy from crying, their skirts crumpled and tangled around their thighs, and their makeup running in thick, viscous lines. But somehow, Asumu pulled off a sort of vulnerable, positively _tragic_ beauty in this state. Rudolf couldn’t keep his eyes off her, and even Kyrie felt an involuntary stab of sympathy, until she remembered just who she was looking at. She couldn’t stop herself staring, though.)

“But I have managed to keep most of the friends I made,” Asumu went on, flashing a pretty smile Kyrie’s way. “The ones who didn’t care about my _problem_ , anyways. It is very nice to be able to stay in touch with work friends even if you’re not working with them anymore. I know of many who can’t claim the same good fortune.”

Kyrie nodded absently. Finding out who these friends were and getting in touch with them would be too obvious. Like an elephant crashing through your living room when she was aiming to be a mouse, drawing in close enough to overhear secrets, but able to scurry silently away without being noticed. For now, at least, subtlety demanded she not have a full picture. Later, perhaps…

“Which brings me to you.”

And with that, Asumu had Kyrie’s undivided attention. She stared at Asumu for a moment, thrown, before she assembled the pieces of a vague, polite smile into something that would actually be passable as such. “Oh? What do you mean?”

Sometime in the last minute, the lighting had shifted to red, suffusing the club with a warm, fuzzy glow. The red glimmered in Asumu’s hair, washed over her dress and jewelry, and when she smiled, the little furrows around her mouth dug deeper and wider than they should have. “We don’t talk much at work,” Asumu pointed out. “I’d gotten the impression that you like getting as much work done as possible during the day. I respect that. But that doesn’t mean…”

For whatever reason, perhaps providing a cue, Asumu trailed off, watching Kyrie expectantly. Kyrie found herself leaning in closer to Asumu, noticing it, but forgetting to remind herself not to. “Doesn’t mean what?”

“Well…” Asumu was leaning forwards too, her smile widening slightly, her eyes gleaming with something Kyrie couldn’t name. “It doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.” On that last word, her voice pitched low, almost hoarse with some half-hidden meaning.

“Friends? You want to be _friends_?” There would be several advantages inherent in Asumu thinking her a _friend_ , but the exact nature of those advantages eluded Kyrie at the moment. Perhaps because the two of them seemed to be getting something list in translation as to ‘ _friends.’_

“Yes.” Asumu’s long, delicate fingers skated over the back of Kyrie’s hand, skin soft on skin, fingernails raking over flesh like blunted blades. “I do.”

It was at that point that Kyrie stopped thinking about information gathering in all but the most primal of senses.

How wonderful it would have been if she could have gone further than this, from a sharp, deep kiss to a deeper exploration still. Teeth tugged on lips, hands fisted in hair, fingernails scrabbled for purchase in flesh. Kyrie could taste the rich, sweet wine Asumu had been drinking on her soft, pliant lips, and perhaps it was that, or simple frustration, or the undeniable desire for someone’s attention to be on her and her alone that awakened this in her. But this booth, though it offered some privacy, did not offer seclusion. Frustrated desire boiled in Kyrie’s blood like poison, but it would just have to wait.

-0-0-0-

The next day, though not unlike any other that Kyrie had spent at work, seemed to drag on for an eternity, each new hour dragging by more slowly than the last. She did not speak to Asumu, didn’t look at her if she could help it. Neither Rudolf nor Asumu seemed to notice anything amiss, but impatience welled higher and higher in Kyrie as the day wore on, louder, more strident and increasingly difficult to ignore. Her skin felt too small for her body, ready to split down invisible seams; her heart felt like it would leap straight out of her mouth and leave her cold corpse behind if she did not do _something_ soon.

Kyrie found an opportunity at the end of the day, as gold and violet light slanted through the windows in the break room. Rudolf had gone home, leaving just Kyrie and Asumu in the building, and the former found the latter in the break room, finishing up washing out the coffee pot and putting it on a towel to dry.

“Asumu-san?” Kyrie called out as she shut the door behind her, and she hated the way her voice hitched as she spoke. “Why don’t we continue the _conversation_ we were having last night?”

Asumu’s bright laughter filled the air as Kyrie pushed her back onto the table, but that laughter soon gave way to silence, and it would be a lie to say that either of them did much in the way of _talking_.

Later, Kyrie would realize that she had managed to give away much more information than she had gathered. What little she had picked up, she couldn’t use without risking Asumu using what she had learned against her. The revelation sparked equal parts fury and shame, and yet, somehow, she still couldn’t tear her eyes away from what had proved a cleverer opponent than she thought.


End file.
